Ashes to Ashes
by lochnassa
Summary: Blaine doesn't even like funerals.
1. Chapter 1

**_This the longest thing I've written without wanting to punch myself repeatedly in the eye. I'm proud of that fact so excuse me while I pat myself on the back._**

**_The entire fic is complete at this point, but I'll just be updating it twice a week, cause where is the fun in posting ten parts at once?_**

**_Also, boo summaries. Let's boycott em._**

The apartment is small, with puke green walls that he's not allowed to paint over and a curious stain in the bedroom carpet. In the kitchen, the sink groans every time he tries to use it, and Blaine's not entirely sure the bathroom has been cleaned in the recent decade, but none of that matters.

What matters is that he's in New York, making his way through life with his own money lining his pockets, and not the pity bucks his father sent him from God knows where whenever he suddenly remembers he has from his first marriage.

True, he's not completely independent. Even though it's a shit apartment, he can't afford the place on his own, and so he's rooming with the always lovely Santana Lopez once again.

But, hey, it could be worse.  
_

"You know, Blainey-"

"Don't call me that."

"We've been friends since the dinosaurs roamed the earth, but I still don't know shit about your family," Santana finishes, as if Blaine hadn't spoken at all. She leans forward on the couch, staring at Blaine until he looks away from his research paper. "You know everything about me, how come I don't know shit about you?"

"I don't know everything about you," Blaine points out.

"Bullshit. First time we tried out being roomies, you kept track of my menstruation cycle."

Blaine feels himself flush at her words. "Only cause you told me if I didn't keep the fridge stocked full of chocolate you wouldn't be at fault if you chopped my nuts off."

"Fine," Santana sighs, leaning back to stare up at the ceiling as she slowly circles one finger around the rim of her wine glass. "I hate to go back to old things, but I guess I'll have to. Blainey Boo, tell me about your papa. We have wine, I have an odd amount of sympathy, and if you don't, I'll chop your balls off."

"Fuck off, you won't," Blaine mutters in response, turning back to his paper.

He ignores the sound of Santana moving across the small distance between them until she plops down in the chair next to him, placing the bottle of red wine on the table with a little grin.

"C'mon, I won't judge. We both know my family was fucked up," Santana urges, pouring more wine as she speaks. "You can start with your dad, hobbit, everyone's got daddy isues," she adds, placing the glass in front of Blaine.

He sighs, rubbing at his temples for a few moments while he stares at the blinking cursor on his word document, like if he concentrates hard enough, Santana will poof back to the hellish pit from which she came. After a few moments, Blaine looks up to see Santana still sitting there, a little smirk on her face.

"Fine," he sighs, sitting back in his chair and reaching out for the wine. "You want me to start with my dad? He was a lawyer. He left when I was two. He sends me money, cards sometimes, but I haven't actually seen him in a long time. All my mom ever said about him was he was a no good cheating bastard, and God help me if I took after him," Blaine ends with a bitter laugh, lifting the glass of wine to wash away the bad taste talking about his father always leaves in his mouth.

Santana is quiet for a minute, and Blaine's thankful for that. When she finally does speak, she reaches out to squeeze his shoulder with one hand. "Dads suck," she says sagely.

Blaine laughs. "Yeah, they do."  
_

Keeping a memory box hadn't been his idea. Surprisingly, it had been Cooper who encouraged him to gather items from his childhood. Blaine was fairly certain it was because Cooper was always preparing for the day he became famous, and he didn't doubt that his brother wouldn't object to selling any old pictures that had the two of them. Still, Blaine liked having the memory box. It was big, and heavy, but on nights when the city was too loud around him, it kept him sane.

Tonight, though, it wasn't that the city was too loud. It was quiet for once. There was the constant background of traffic and voices outside, but Blaine had grown as used to those noises as he had the sound of his mother yelling. They barely register as he sits cross legged on the floor, surrounded by old drawings and report cards. A beer sits off to the side, but it had been forgotten when Blaine got to the bottom of the box, only to find a small bag full of birthday cards.

The cards were laid out directly in front of him and he could feel something inside of him start to break as he slowly picked up one, flipping back the superhero cover to look at the message inside.

_Happy birthday, Blaine! I know you're only one and you can't read this, but someday you will. And maybe we'll read it together, look back on old photo albums and be a little sentimental cause fathers and sons can do that together._

_I just wanted to write and tell you I love you, buddy._

The small blue writing took up both sides, but Blaine set the card down before reading it all. Blinking hurriedly, he found himself reaching for a second card.

_Three years old! You're gonna be grey before I know it!_

Another card, wrinkled like someone had tried to crumble it up.

_Happy tenth birthday. Sorry I couldn't make it to your party, but you know how work is. Included some money. Spend wisely._

Blaine set the last card down and stared at the rest for a long time before reaching out, knocking them aside.

"Fuck," he whispers, staring at the empty space until his white carpet becomes a haze, and he has to reach for his beer.  
_

He's not sure how long he's been drinking.

He's not even sure why he's drinking.

It's not like he didn't know that his father was a shitty person. He thought he was over it, satisfied with the life he had. He thought he had stopped trying to reach out for his father when he managed to get his dad's email while in the hospital freshman year and all he got for the pain he experienced typing that damn thing was a short reply.

Not a visit, or a phone call, or even any attempts at trying to understand what he was going through. Just a sorry, and then nothing.

Blaine bitterly takes another swig from the bottle in his hand. It burns going down, but he's gotten used to it.

"The bastard," he mutters as he drinks, feeling like a brooding teenager. He hasn't focused on his dad for this long in years, but the conversation with Santana the week they moved in had triggered something. Now, Blaine's painfully aware that he is, indeed, another kid with daddy issues.

He's about to set his drink down and try going to bed when his phone begins to ring. Frowning, Blaine stares at the screen. It's too late for any of his friends to call, and the number doesn't pop up with a name, but alcohol has always made him curious.

"Hello?" Blaine asks as he answers, doing his best to sound perfectly sober and put together.

"Hello? Is this, uh, Blaine? Blaine Anderson?"

He considers lying, figures it could be a telemarketer with absurd hours, but his mouth is working before his brain tonight. "Yeah. Who are you?"

"You don't know me, but I'm your sister-"

"Bullshit. I don't have a sister, just one brother. He's famous, kind of. Maybe you know him?" Blaine adds in a rush, words spilling together.

The woman on the other end is silent for a few moments. "Do you...do you want me to call back tomorrow?"

"No," Blaine says. "I won't pick up. Who are you really?"

"Your sister," the woman repeats before sighing. "Look, I know this is a dumb way to tell somebody, and I wouldn't believe me if I were you. But, please. My father was Robert Anderson. He was a lawyer. You're Blaine, you're his son. I'm his daughter, Sophia."

Blaine opens his mouth for a sharp retort when he pauses, gaping for words like a fool before he finally manages to murmur, "Was?"

"Yes...that's...that's why I'm calling. Dad, uhm, he died. Last night. It was a heart attack. I, well, my mom didn't want to call you or your brother. Cooper, right? But, uh, I felt like...I felt like it was the right thing to do. She thinks so, too, now. And we're...we're inviting you to his funeral. It's in two days."

"Uhm...yeah. Okay. Email me the information, I have to go," Blaine says, rattling off his email before he hangs up.

His phone falls on the empty couch cushion and he stares at the wall in front of him, feeling suddenly cold. His father had been a basic stranger to him ever since he was a kid, but it doesn't make him feel any better. In fact, it makes him feel worse, knowing that he has a sister out there, who probably got to get to know their father through more than a woman's bitter memories.

Before he knows it, he's reaching out with one hand for the bottle he had set aside.

Tonight, he'll drink.

And tomorrow?

Who knows.


	2. Chapter 2

The throbbing headache Blaine has when he wakes up isn't entirely unexpected, but that doesn't make it any less awful. Moaning, he forces himself out of bed around noon, lumbering through their long hall until he reaches the living room, where Santana is sitting on the couch with a mug in her head. Tendrils of steam float up from the contents inside and Blaine can smell coffee on the air.

"Good morning, Starshine. Thought you were gonna sleep the whole day away. I was excited," she adds before holding out the mug. "For you, because hungover you is probably the worst fucking thing on earth."

Blaine doesn't know why he just blurts it out, but as he reaches out to take the mug from Santana the words spill out of his mouth in an unexpected rush. "My dad died."

The words hang between them for a few moments, and Blaine wishes that he could snatch them back.

"Dude," Santana says, which means she's at a loss for words. It's a rare occurrence, and if Blaine wasn't so hung over, and if his dad wasn't so dead, he'd be rather proud of himself. "When did this happen?"

"Two..three days ago," Blaine tells her, sitting down in the armchair closest to him. He stares at the coffee in his hands as it threatens to slosh over the sides of the mug, his brows furrowed. "I got a call last night. Someone said she was my sister," he adds, looking up in time to catch Santana arch one brow in surprise.

"You believed her?"

"It wasn't a prank call," he snaps in his own defense, bringing one hand to run it nervously through his hair. "I just...I know she was telling the truth. You know how you can just tell sometimes?"

"Yeah, I do," Santana murmurs, lapsing into a long enough silence that Blaine can take a sip of the bitter drink in his hands. "So, I'm guessing there's a funeral. You gonna go?"

"I don't know," Blaine says honestly. "I said yes, on the phone, but I was drunk and I just...God, he didn't tell me he had a second family. I mean, I know he cheated on my mom. But he never said he had kids, never thought it'd be important to tell me," he adds, letting out a harsh laugh.

"Well, there's no excuse for that. If your dad wasn't dead I'd offer to fuck him up for being such a jackass to you. But, you should go," Santana's voice is surprisingly serious. Blaine wonders if he's caught her in one of her moods.

He sighs, shrugging his shoulders. "I don't know if I can."

"You got invited, you've got some money he gives you stored away. Don't even deny it, asshole, I know things," Santana adds before Blaine can interject. "Look, man, you're dad was a jackass. But, you should go. Get some closure or something. Or, you know, at least meet your sister."

"How much of a sister is she really? I mean, we're only related by blood. I didn't even know her name until last night, and I can't remember it now," Blaine tells her, but Santana just shrugs.

"So what. I didn't meet my sister until we were nine. But, you know she exists, so do you really want to walk around wondering about her? Don't you wanna know what she's like?" Santana asks, letting her question sink in before she stands. "I'm not gonna pressure you. This is your choice, and as long as you remain about as mentally stable as you are now, I'm cool with whatever you decide. But, you know me. Gotta make your shit a little more difficult, keep life fun."

Blaine snorts, looking up at his friend. "Yeah, thanks, Santana."

"Anytime," she flashes him a grin. "Now, I've gotta go catch a ride if I wanna get my ass to work on time. You take a shower, Stinkass. We just bought this furniture, we don't need it smelling like you," she says, pointing threateningly at him before exiting the apartment, door shutting quietly behind her.

Looking away from the door, Blaine stares out the window, biting on his lower lip. He knows that he should go, as his father's son. But is it really his father? All correspondences he has ever had with the man are spread out on his bedroom floor in the forms of shitty cards picked up from dollar stores across the country. He never had a father, not really. What he had was a broken bastard lingering behind him, reaching out long enough to shake up his world before disappearing into the shadows again.

Blaine knows that the man he will watch be buried if he goes will just be a stranger, nothing significant.

Still, he has family waiting for him. Or a sister, at least. He's fine with holding grudges against a man that did nothing to earn any respect from him, but his sister (God, he should really try to remember her name again) wasn't responsible for any of that.

And despite the feelings of uncertainty tumbling around inside, Blaine knows he wants to meet her.


	3. Chapter 3

"Hello? Blaine, are you there?"

"I'm here, Mom. Gimme more than a second to reply," he adds. He's pacing around his bedroom, free hand held in a tight fist at his side as he moves. He doesn't know why he's doing this, calling to squeal to his mom, but he feels like he has to. If his dad's other...wife? Well, whatever she was, if she hadn't wanted his own son to be notified about his death, she probably didn't bother to tell his mother.

He thinks she has a right to know.

"Well, what's up, honey? Doing well in your new place? How is Santana?" his mother asks, her voice light as she speaks.

"We're good, it's uh...good. But, Mom, I called to tell you something...important. I don't know if you even care, really, why am I calling? I'll just hang up, you have a good-"

"Blaine," his mother's voice cuts through his rambling. It's filled with concern and he feels like a child again. His mother always manages to make him feel like he's three. "What's wrong? Tell me."

"I...I got a call last night," Blaine swallows, pausing in his pacing to stare out his small window. "I...it was...someone that knew dad. She said he died."

His mother is silent, but Blaine knows she's still on the line. He can hear her ragged breathing. He wonders, for a moment, if she's trying not to cry.

"That's...that's unexpected," his mother whispers at last. "But why are you telling me this?"

"Mom," Blaine sighs out the word. "I just thought you might want to know. But, uh, I did want to tell you that I was invited to his funeral. And I'm going. I'm flying out tonight, they managed to snag me a ticket."

His mother makes an odd, strangled noise on the end. "Why would you go to that?" she finally whispers. "He...he doesn't deserve to have you there."

"You're right," Blaine agrees. "But I have to go."

"I don't want you to get hurt. I don't want you to see...see how different things can be there. Blaine, he had a second life. You were never on his mind. Everyone will be there to share memories and...and..."

"And I'll have nothing," Blaine finishes for her. "But I have to. I'm sorry, but I have to."

"I know," his mother murmurs. "Is your brother going with you at least?"

"No, he has work."

"I don't want you to be alone," his mother says quietly, but she doesn't try to stop him again. Instead, she resigns herself with a sigh, and Blaine can hear her moving around on the other end of the line. "I can't stop you, so I won't try. But, please, don't expect too much. And call me. If you need to."

"I will. Love you, Mom."

"Love you too."

When the line goes dead, Blaine looks around his room for a moment before sighing and deciding he should pack.


	4. Chapter 4

_**I'm sure you're all dying to meet her, so I won't have an extended note at the beginning...**_

Flying has never been much of a thing for Blaine. It's not that he hates being in small spaces with loud infants that insist on crying for hours on ends and old ladies that smell heavily of ancient perfume. He grew up with Cooper, after all. The oddities on the airplane are nothing compared to his brother.

No, it's just that Blaine has a problem with falling out of the sky in a tin can of death. So, it's somewhat amusing, in a sick sort of way, that he braves his biggest fear for a man that never even bothered to come and visit him.

"Don't be bitter," Blaine reminds himself as he stands just outside the airport, searching for a face he knows only from some photos on Facebook.

The butterflies twisting in his stomach threaten to lift him away and he considers sitting on the curb. There's a lot of gum, though, and what looks like brown sludge, but could very well be someone's spit. Blaine doesn't have an issues with messes, but he prefers to keep the seat of his pants clean.

"Calm down," he tells himself with a sigh, shifting from foot to foot. Waiting for his sister at an airport shouldn't be any more nerve racking than an audition. It's true that he's never met this sister, and he has no idea if they'll get along, but still. It's his sister.

A hand suddenly lands on his shoulder, dragging Blaine from his thoughts.

"Fuck," he exhales, spinning around with a start. The quick motion causes him to lose his balance and he wonders if this is really how he's going to start his trip, falling off a fucking curb.

"Oh, shit," the woman that grabbed him curses, reaching out to pull Blaine in by the arm. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you."

"It's alright," Blaine tells her, even though his heart is still pounding a violent beat against his chest. When he's calmed down somewhat, he looks closely at the woman, taking in her hazel eyes and bright pink hair. "Are you Sophia?"

"Yep," she says brightly, popping her "p" with a smile. "I know, it's the hair that threw you off. I dyed it not too long ago. Mom says it's me being a rebel, except I'm 19 and past that."

"Oh," Blaine says dumbly. "Well, I'm Blaine."

"I know," Sophia laughs. "I called you, remember?"

"Right, right. You did do that. I remember, kind of. Not really. I was drunk," Blaine admits in a quick breath.

For a moment, he's embarrassed about his nervous rambling, but Sophia's smile just grows as she moves to grab one of his bags.

"You're a blurter, huh? Don't worry, I am too."  
_

The car ride is quiet for the first few minutes. Sophia spends most of her time cursing at bad drivers while trying to get out of the busy parking lot. Blaine just stares out the window, wondering if this was really that good of an idea. He's contemplating doing a spectacular roll out of the car and running onto a flight back home when his phone vibrates.

Grumbling, Blaine pulls it out of his pocket and swipes his thumb across the screen to unlock it.

_Did you ralph on an old lady again?_

Blaine can't help but laugh quietly at the text from Santana as he begins to type a response, his fingers flying across the screen.

**I didn't throw up on her. I threw up by her.**

_Same diff._

"Who you texting?" Sophia asks.

Blaine looks up quickly, feeling himself flush. It's probably rude to text someone when you could be having a conversation with the person next to you.

"Just...my roomie. Nothing important," he adds, pocketing his phone.

"Right, well," Sophia says, reaching out to turn down the dial on the radio, effectively silencing the wailing of Katy Perry. "We have a guest room set up in the house for you, if you want. Otherwise we can get you a hotel room."

"The guest room is fine," Blaine murmurs. He's not sure it'll be comfortable to spend a few nights in a house with virtual strangers, but he doesn't want to be dropped off at some hotel. He can't trust himself to not catch a last minute flight to New York.

"Awesome," Sophia says, her smile growing wider as she turns up the radio again.

The rest of the ride is less awkward since Sophia sings along to the radio and doesn't mind if Blaine joins in. Sometimes, she'll take a moment to curse at the radio DJ whenever they come on.

"Their accent throws me off. Nothing against accents, man, but damn," Sophia tells him at one point, glaring at the radio with an alarming amount of hate in her eyes.

"Damn British," Blaine says, shaking his head.

Sophia laughs. "I like you, Blaine."

He doesn't know what to say, so he gives her a small smile, and mumbles something about not hating her, too.

They don't speak again until they're driving through a neighborhood with houses bigger than Blaine thinks any house has the right to be. They start out plain at first, for the neighborhood at least, but as they pass down the dark streets everything gets more and more extravagant. It's like every time a house was erected, someone decided they had to come along and outdo it.

"Which house is yours?" Blaine wonders, leaning forward to look through the windshield, balancing his elbows on his knees as he does.

"Oh, uhm, straight ahead. The obnoxious one."

Well, shit.

The house is huge, with a long, twisting driveway that's filled with cars. They all look to be expensive and Blaine's sure that there's probably a few out there that are worth more than he is. He must have a wide eyed look on his face because Sophia says, "Don't worry. It's not that big. At least, not with all the people."

"I didn't know there were gonna be more people," Blaine breathes out the words to himself, forgetting that Sophia can hear.

When he looks over, concern flashes over her face, but she doesn't say anything until the car is parked and off.

"Uhm, sorry. I forgot to tell you there'd be more people. It just slipped my mind," she admits, turning to face him. "But I can totally take you to a hotel if you're uncomfortable."

"It's alright," Blaine assures her, unbuckling himself as he speaks. "I'm an actor, I can deal with crowds," he adds, flashing her a bright smile before climbing out of the car and walking to the trunk.

"You'll be fine," Blaine tells himself as he removes his luggage.

The lie doesn't settle well.


	5. Chapter 5

_**I have nothing to say for myself.**_

The house is full of noise when Sophia opens the door, gesturing for Blaine to walk in ahead of her. He takes it all in with large eyes, feeling nerves begin to start up again. He can tell Sophia thinks he's nervous because of the house itself, and the people milling around them, but he's not. His dad may have been the one with a fancy title before his name, but his mom had managed to create a successful business. He's grown up in a large house, hosting pretentious parties with small hot dogs on plates and waiters walking around with mock French accents.

"You can just leave your stuff in the closet," Sophia gestures to a door off to the side of the entrance. "Someone will bring it up for you later."

When everything is tucked away into the wide closet, Sophia grabs him by the hand, startling him again.

"C'mon, little brother. My mom wants to meet you."

"I'm older than you," Blaine protests weakly as he's dragged through the halls, passing by people that all look vaguely familiar from photographs his mom bothered to keep of his dad's side of the family.

"True, but you're short," Sophia informs him with a shrug. "Sorry, bro."

He's about to issue a sharp retort when Sophia suddenly stops short, causing him to bump into her. The crowd around them is silent now and Blaine finds himself looking around, taking in their black suits and dresses. He feels even more out of place than he did before, but at least Sophia is dressed casually as well.

Copying the rest of the crowd, Blaine turns his attention to the stairs. They are massive, starting as one before reaching a landing of sorts, where two staircases evolve, both going off in different directions. At the foot of the first staircase stands a woman in a simple black dress. She looks young, but Blaine can see the tiredness in her shoulders. They droop as if someone had decided she was Atlas and left her to bear the weight of the world.

It doesn't take Blaine long at all to see the resemblance between Sophia and the woman (her mother). Even at a distance, they look somewhat alike, and it's obvious that this is where his sister got her tall stature from.

"I would like to thank you all for coming," the woman says, her voice echoing throughout the large room. "I know you are all here to mourn and that is good. It's proper for people to mourn after a death. But I want us to celebrate, too. I want us to remember Robert for the man he was. Good, hard working, and an excellent father."

The words made Blaine cringe. Was Sophia's mother exaggerating, or had his father really been so wonderful with these people?

For his sanity, he tells himself that she's not being truthful. Everyone exaggerates the positive qualities of the dead.

"Dinner is being served in the dining room, buffet style. Too many of you are here for a sit down," the woman says, laughing nervously before waving her hand. "Again, thank you. And enjoy."

As soon as she steps down from her perch, the crowd takes up talking again, and many of the people begin to drift towards the direction Blaine assumes the kitchen is in. His stomach rumbles at the thought of food, but Sophia is pulling him along again. Like an obedient dog, he follows.

"Mom," Sophia calls out.

The woman turns, her brightly painted lips stretching into a smile at the sight of her daughter. "Sophia, you're back!"

Blaine's hand is dropped so the two can embrace and he awkwardly watches until they separate. The woman looks at him, pursing her lips slightly as she does. It's like all the warmth has washed away from her.

"You're Robert's son," the woman states.

"Uh...yes. I'm Blaine."

"I know that," she replies dismissively. "I'm Barbara."

He doesn't know what to say in response, but Barbara is still examining him, a thoughtful expression on her face.

"You remind me of Robert," she says suddenly. "In some ways. You have the same eyes, and hair. And he stood like you, when he wasn't working."

It's odd, to be told that he reminds someone of his father, and at first it feels like an insult. Nobody had ever spoke well about the type of man Robert Anderson was, and Blaine had spent most of his life trying to be the complete opposite of him. But this was different...and it felt good. It wasn't like a sudden connection had forged between him and a dead man, but there was some relief in knowing that he wasn't a total outcast.

"How do I stand?" Blaine asks, the words spilling out instead of the thank you he had meant to give.

Barbara smiles though. It's small, but it's something.

"You stand like someone that has come with a purpose. What's your purpose here, Blaine?"

The question shocks him, but he recovers quickly. He's grown up with people that were oddly perceptive. It doesn't bug him as much anymore.

"I...I don't know," Blaine admits after a few moments of silence.

Barbara shakes her head. "You have a purpose, you know what it is. I won't judge you for it."

"I guess..." Blaine pauses, frowning slightly. "I came to get to know my father."  
_

Hours pass by slowly. People trickle in and out of the house, muttering their condolences whenever they go. Nobody seems to notice Blaine, tucked away in a corner, and he's glad. He doesn't think he's up to talking to anybody.

Halfway through the evening, Sophia had disappeared to socialize, but now she is back. Her bright hair is pulled into a tight bun and sometime during the night she has managed to change into a black dress.

"You look nice," Blaine says when she approaches.

"Ah, thanks, little bro," Sophia smiles, twirling around as she speaks, giving Blaine a full view. "I really like how it makes my ass look, but I won't ask you to judge. Mom doesn't approve of incest."

"Well, I think we're safe on that. Not really big on the ladies," Blaine mutters. As soon as the words escape, he's afraid that he said them to the wrong person. After graduating high school he had grown less secretive about who he was, but that was simply a product of a safer environment. Blaine wasn't sure if these were the right people to let that slip around. If they were anything like his father, they definitely weren't.

To his relief, Sophia simply smiles and waves her hand. "You don't gotta like the ladies to appreciate one's ass," she informs him with a wink before holding out her hand. "My mom wants me to show you something."

Blaine frowns before letting Sophia pull him up.

"Where are we going?" he asks when she starts to lead him up the stairs. He hasn't seen anybody go up there tonight, and he feels like a kid exploring forbidden territory.

"You'll see," Sophia says over her shoulder, lengthening her stride as soon as they're off the stairs.

The hall they walk down is long and well lit, decorated with various family portraits. He stops by the first one. He can tell it's the most recent because of the date at the bottom. Blaine hears his sister come up beside him, but he barely pays attention as he stares at the picture of his father. He hasn't seen any of the man past the age of thirty, but here he is, smiling beside his wife, his daughter sat between them. A boring, traditional pose, but it makes jealousy flare up deep inside Blaine.

"He made us take pictures every year. Wanted to chronicle the times. He was big on that," Sophia speaks up softly from next to him, staring at the picture as well. For the first time, she looks like she's about to cry.

"Yeah," Blaine mutters, stepping back.

They're silent for a few more moments, both of them staring at the picture before Blaine turns and clears his throat. "So, uh, where were you taking me?"

"Right, this way."

Blaine follows quietly, not bothering to look at any of the other pictures on the wall.

Sophia leads him to a room towards the end of the hall. She pauses, taking a deep breath before turning to Blaine with a forced smile. "This was Dad's office," she tells him quietly, turning the knob and pushing the door open.

Blaine walks in quietly behind Sophia, pausing in the middle of the room to look around when the light is flicked on. He feels like there's a band around his chest, restricting his breathing. The room is simple, with muted colors and a large oak desk taking up the side directly across from the door. There are frames on the wall, most of them filled with various diplomas, but one particular frame catches his eye.  
It's directly behind the desk and Blaine walks closer to it, frowning as he reads the newspaper clipping inside.

The date is the same as his junior year, and Blaine stares at it for a long time, reading over the words over and over again before he points.

"This is me," he whispers. "This...this is my show choir. Where did he get this?"

"Dad went to Ohio a lot," Sophia says. "I never knew what he did there until my mom told me you lived there."

"He never visited me," Blaine tells her, his voice still barely above a whisper as he moves on to another picture frame. This one holds an old photo he's seen before. It had been taken on the beach by his mother. He's on his father's shoulders, laughing with his hands tangled in his father's dark curls.

Each frame either has a photo or some other document including Blaine. It's like a wall of his life. For the first time since arriving, he can feel tears gathering in his eyes, and he wants to scream. He doesn't have to cry over this man. Sure, he kept a wall, and flew out to Ohio to watch him in Little League and show choir and stupid school plays, but he never bothered to meet him. Never bothered to come up and introduce himself to a son that wanted nothing more than to be next to him for at least a second, to look up and see the type of man he could become.

"Blaine," Sophia's hand is a heavy weight on his shoulder. "You're crying."

He sniffs, lifting one hand to wipe at his eyes. "I know...why did your mom tell you to bring me here?"

"You said you wanted to get to know my father," Sophia responds. "She said she can tell you all the stories she wants, but this is where my father spent a lot of his time. This room is more his than any other room in the house."

Blaine turns away from the wall, walking behind the desk to look at the pictures on it. None of them are of him, but he expected that much.

There is a page sitting on the desk and Blaine bends down to look at it. He feels a bit creepy, like he's intruding on something personal, but his father is dead. He's not going to care, and obviously Sophia doesn't, otherwise she'd stop him.

The writing on the paper is small, but Blaine can read it easily.

"Dear Blaine," he begins, voice already growing thick. "I am dying. I know that's a horrible way to start a letter, so forgive me. But, I cannot pass on without attempting to contact you. For some reason, I have never bothered to before, and I could shake myself. I have missed out on so much in your life. I know it is too late for us to be as close as we could. I know we will never have the relationship a father and son should have..."

Blaine looks up from the letter. "Where's the rest?"

"That's all he wrote," Sophia says before pointing to his left side. "In that drawer, there's another one. For Cooper. I think he meant to send them at the same time but...well...he never got around to it."

He nods, wiping at his eyes again before sitting down in the straight backed chair. "I just...I don't know what to say," Blaine says, breaking the heavy silence that had begun to suffocate them both.

He looks back at the wall full of pictures and clippings, shaking his head as he looks at it. It takes him a few moments to find the words he wants, and when he does, he delivers them without sugar coating a single sentence.

"I know that he was good to you guys," Blaine says, looking over at Sophia. "Or, at least, you guys said he was good. And maybe he was a decent guy. But at the end of the day, he had us, too. He left me, and my brother. He left my mom. We never heard for him, except for some shitty birthday cards. And, you want to know something? He couldn't even get my name right in most of them. I just...I'm so jealous, Sophia."

"I'm sorry," she says, her words so quiet Blaine barely hears.

"No, don't be sorry," Blaine tells her firmly. "You weren't the one that ignored one half of your family for another. You didn't make him miss my calls, you didn't make him ignore my party invitations. You weren't a sad, pathetic man that thought putting up a...a fucking wall of your child's life would make up for everything you missed!"

His voice has risen, but he finds that he doesn't care. For once, someone is really listening, and he can't stop himself to check his tone.

"Did you know that I was in the hospital freshman year, and I emailed him. I was in so much pain and I was so scared, but I still got the doctors to let me email him. But he never came. Never even called me. Just sent me a shitty, single sentence response and some money, like he could pay me to forget. But money can't fix everything," Blaine hisses. He leans forward with a choked off sound, hiding his face in his hands. "I don't want to be bitter. I didn't come here to make anyone feel bad. I didn't come here to settle a score or..or...I don't know. I just didn't come here for this. And I knew that things were going to suck. I knew that he was your father, and you knew him, and that would make me hurt. I thought I could handle it. I thought I was strong enough. I've been through so much, you know? I've dealt with a lot and I thought this was just one more puddle I'd walk through before shaking myself off and carrying on, but this isn't a fucking puddle, Sophia. It's a goddamn river and I can't fucking swim."

When he finishes, he's breathing hard, and there are tears making their way down his face. For a long time, he stares into the darkness that his hands over his eyes provide. Maybe, if he pretends hard enough, he can be back in New York. He can be listening to the sounds of the city, wailing sirens, screaming voices, Santana's bitching. He would gladly be back in his room, face down on that weird stain on his floor, than sitting in his father's office.

But pretending doesn't fix anything.

There is no magical transporter to carry his body away. He is not a superhuman who can will himself to another part of the country. He is stuck here, hiding from one more problem piled on to all the others he's done his best to ignore.

He's fit to sit here for the rest of the night, hunched over with his hands covering his face so nobody can see any of the emotions there, but gentle fingers wrap around his own and pull his hands down.

"Blaine," Sophia murmurs, letting go of his hands as soon as he drops them to rub nervously at her neck. "I...fuck, I'm sorry. I know it's not my fault, but it doesn't change anything. And I just...my father...our father...he isn't here to apologize. He isn't here to try and fix anything. But even if he was, I don't think you'd let him."

Blaine looks up quickly, clenching his jaw. He's not in the mood to be attacked for having emotions, and he's about to say so when Sophia cuts him off.

"I'm not faulting you," she explains gently. "I'm just...making an observation."

She stops rubbing at her neck, choosing to cross her arms instead. It's almost like she's hugging herself.

"Dad wasn't a bad man, but he wasn't a good father," Sophia says at last. "I know that it's different, for me. He messed up a lot of times, but at least he was here. I'm sorry that I took some of that from you. I used to always throw fits when he wanted to go to Ohio for the weekend. It was before I knew you and Cooper existed, but it doesn't make me any less selfish. I'm sorry that I'm part of the reason he started to stay behind. And I get it if you want to go home. We can get you a ticket, nobody will fault you."

"No," Blaine shakes his head sharply. "I'm not going home. I hate him. I hate him almost more than any other person I've ever met, but he's still my dad. I want to go to his funeral."

"Good," Sophia speaks softly, a small smile on her face. "That's good."

Blaine returns her smile for a moment before he turns to his dad's desk. "Do you...do you mind leaving me alone, for a little bit?"

"Yeah, of course," Sophia turns to go, pausing at the door. "The guest room is at the end of this hall. We'll wake you up in time for breakfast...goodnight, Blaine."

The door is gently shut as Blaine replies with, "Goodnight, Sophia."


	6. Chapter 6

_**I wrote the majority of this chapter at midnight chugging mtn dew. The errors in this were highly amusing.**_

He spends hours sorting through the papers in his father's desk. The bottom drawers are locked and he assumes that those one contain items relevant to his work. Everything else, though, is unlocked and he has no problem with reading every notebook or scrap of paper.

Sometimes, he comes across his name, usually accompanied by a date. Most of them are a few years old, but Blaine comes across a few pictures tucked away into the smallest drawer. Biting his lip, he sorts through the pictures, feeling something ugly rear up inside him when he recognizes his graduation ceremony.

In the same drawer, he finds pictures of Cooper, little playbills from all the plays his brother did during school. He's suddenly filled with the urge to rip those apart. He knows how much it hurt whenever Cooper sent his father a ticket, only to have nobody show up in the reserved seat. He doesn't want his dad to have these, not even in death, but instead he tucks them back away and slams the door shut.

The sound echoes in the small room and not long after the door is pushed open.

"Oh, shit, I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to be loud," Blaine apologizes quickly. He looks up, expecting to see Sophia, but instead Barbara stands in the doorway.

"Sophia told me you were going to be in here for awhile," Barbara says, stepping into the room. She's dressed down in some pajamas, all the makeup wiped off her face. She looks older now, and more worn. Blaine wonders how much of that has come from the past few days alone.

"I didn't mean to wake you."

"No, you didn't wake me," Barbara walks closer, pausing before the desk. She places one hand on it, leaning most of her weight into it as she looks around the office, taking in everything that must be so familiar to her. "My husband spent a lot of time in here. I'm sorry it upset you, some of his stuff, but I figured this room was better than some old stories. Robert was never one for writing, not if he didn't have to. This room is all that's really left."

"I...did Sophia..."

"Tell me what you said? Not in detail, but I got the basics."

Barbara smiles gently at the look on Blaine's face.

"I'm...I'm sorry...I didn't-"

"Don't," she lifts her hand, pointing at him, her mouth twisting down severely for a moment. "Don't tell me you didn't mean it. You did and I don't blame you. You owe me no apology, Blaine. None at all."

For some reason, Blaine feels like a weight has been lifted from him. He still feels exhausted and oddly empty, but at least he doesn't feel like falling over and closing his eyes until the world finally ends.

"You know, I have another daughter. She's older than you, almost thrity. She lives out in California, but she'll be here for the funeral."

"I...I didn't know that," Blaine says awkwardly.

"She's not your sister. Not biologically, at least, but she's an actress too, so who knows. Maybe you two will hit it off," Baraba says with a shrug.

She's quiet again, and Blaine looks at her closely for a bit before clearing his throat. "Not to be, uh, rude...but why are you telling me this?"

"Her dad wasn't around. Not often. Not close to enougn," Barbara explains. "Sometimes, after I got off the phone after yelling at him, I thought to myself that this must be how your mother feels. It was so exhausting, fighting him to come visit his children, and God knows your mother fought for her boys. I heard her and Robert. I never told him. I liked to pretend that it didn't happen. Maybe that sounds bad, but can you imagine, Blaine? I despised my daughter's father for what he did to her. Or, more so, what he failed to do. I didn't want to think my husband was doing the same thing."

She's looking at him earnestly, like she really is desperate for him to understand her, but he can't. He knows all too well how much time his mother spent on the phone. She tried to stay quiet, but the walls were thin in some of their old houses, and she could never hide the haggard look on her face after a night spent arguing with her ex over another ignored invite, or missed party.

"I...I don't know what you want me to say," Blaine lifts one hand and runs it through his hair. "I'm sorry, but I really don't."

"I don't want you to say anything," Barbara tells him simply. "I just wanted to tell you that I apologize. For not doing more. Nobody could ever boss your father around, but I think he would have done more if someone had just given him that push. For the past twenty two years, I was his wife. I should've given him that push."

Blaine stares at her, searching the lines of her face. He sees nothing but truth, but he can't accept her apology without lying. Finally, Barbara raps her knuckles on the desk.

"I didn't expect you to accept," she says. "I just...I wanted to tell you, I guess."

She turns, exiting the room almost as quietly as she had come.

"Goodnight, Blaine."

The door shuts behind her.

He doesn't bother to reply.


End file.
